


Into the West

by warlikepancake



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial, Elrond Knows THings, Existential Angst, F/M, May contain traces of Forgotten Realms, Oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warlikepancake/pseuds/warlikepancake
Summary: There are reasons Eriol does not sail to Valinor, many of which he would prefer never to see the light of day. But Elrond's too observant, and Eriol's too unlucky for that to last.
Relationships: OMC/OFC
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Into the West

The Prancing Pony was full that evening. With rain pounding the windows and odd folk about, there were few other places in Bree to go at a time like this. Lanterns and a great fireplace made the windows glow with a cheery warmth. Inside, Barliman Butterbur bustled about, a cheery word to everyone as he managed the business of food and drink.

Except the small group huddled in a smoky corner. Despite the heat of the common room, they wore their cloaks tight about them. Eyes slid past them, noting only that two were the size of Men, and the third much taller. Rangers, perhaps. It was as much their bearing as their worn boots and travel-stained clothing. The movement of mouths were hidden by pipe stems and callused hands, counsel taken in secrecy. The innkeeper approached the table only once, bearing fresh mugs, before removing himself with surprising swiftness.

They had barely looked up at the interruption.

The tallest finally knocked back the last of his drink and made to rise, but he was stopped by his companions. Their voices rose loud enough to be heard by those seated nearby. “You will not stay the night?” one Ranger asked in surprise, his grizzled voice melding with the general talk of the place.

The one attempting an escape responded in the negative with a shake of the head, and an impatient gesture with one hand. “I will press on, even in the rain. I still have two days to ride before I arrive in Rivendell to escort the next departure. It will be many weeks long travel to reach the Havens from there.”

“Ah, another one. It’ll be good to give them a proper send off, I’d think. It’s only a matter of time before you leave too, I’d think. Finally see the rest of your family, eh? So here’s to a safe journey.” Two mugs were lifted in salute.

Safe journey, indeed. There was doubt this one would be any different from the many that came before.

He rose to his feet and tossed a few coins onto the table, enough to cover their drinks. Butterbur welcomed Rangers in his establishment—or rather, their coin. But their presence was merely tolerated, especially by the Breelanders who frequented the inn.

“Paying tonight?” the eldest of the three said in amusement. He raised his tankard in another ironic salute. “Never expected such generosity.”

“Enjoy the evening of celebration.” A sharp laugh. “It might be a while before you may chance upon another.” With a last brief farewell, he turned away from his companions. What he did not see was the worried expression that fell over their faces.

The Ranger stepped out into the rainy street and whistled for the stablehand. Waiting for his horse to be brought, he gazed down the mud pit that was Bree’s main road toward the west gate. Many weeks long travel, indeed. It was what lay at the end of it that worried him. But his path didn’t lay there, not yet.

“Here ye go, sir,” the hobbit said from beneath the oiled leather of his hood. “All tacked up and ready to go, though not sure why you’d want to be off in weather like this.”

“It’s because I must,” the traveler murmured wearily.

After a rather long-suffering welcome from the steward of the Last Homely House, Eriol had been supplied a general report of the departure preparations. Apparently there were more than usual, and the Imladrim were finding that the scouts and guards necessary for such a size group were not as plentiful as they used to be. And so he found himself with time on his hands as the last of the preparations were made. He’d wandered the valley, had lingered in the terraced gardens to soak in the sunlight for a time. And now he found himself lurking on a terrace that overlooked one of the many waterfalls that guarded Imladris. Perhaps he had spent too much time among the Dúnedain, solitary and secretive as they were. He had avoided the other Elves and had lingered in places not many would stumble upon.

“I am glad you accepted the charge of escort this departure. Many who travel with you sail to be rejoined with family they have not seen in long years.”

He glanced up at the kind but unwelcome voice. Master Elrond settled beside him, fine brown and amber robes blending with the autumn leaves drifting across the terrace. “Much joy I wish them,” Eriol said shortly. There were getting to be too few Elven scouts who knew the forest paths of Eriador, from Imladris to the Shire and beyond. Of course he would accept.

“Do you not have anyone waiting in Valinor?” Elrond’s grey gaze seemed to weigh on him, even when he wasn’t looking at the lord.

Eriol barked out a laugh. “Would that I had such a welcome. For none have sailed.”

“But those who have died and passed into the Halls of Mandos. You think none of your people have been released and reembodied to greet you?” Eriol blinked at that. That any of his people would willingly submit to the Valar in repentance was laughable, much less accept their terms of judgment and healing required before being released once more to the living world. The only ones more arrogant in their disdain had been the Fëanorians, and look where they remained. Locked away in the Halls of Mandos until the Second Music.

His lips twisted into a bitter smile at that thought. “You know why I cannot sail, Master Elrond. Why I would be spit upon in the streets of Tirion. You ask if my people would be welcomed amongst the living in Valinor? I think not.” He couldn’t help the vitriol that dripped from his words, anger and bitterness in equal measure.

Elrond contemplated his words. “Cannot? Or will not?”

“Is there a difference?” He was disconcerted with how swiftly Elrond unraveled him, finding that one thread and _pulling_.

“I know you fear the West, fear what lies beyond the Bent World.”

Silence fell between them, birdsong and rustling leaves, all fed with the distant rumble of the great waterfalls that filled the valley. Eriol’s fingers smoothed over the terrace’s railing, catching a falling leaf the color of burnished gold. The journeys to the Havens took place in spring and in autumn only, and he thought about how quieter Imladris would become after this one. It was a bittersweet thought.

“You were born in Middle-earth,” he said eventually. “How do you know what it’s even like? It could just be fairytales told by the Exiles as a way to keep up morale during the wars. A memory of better times to fight for. It could all be lies, and the Eldar are sailing into . . . into nothingness.” His voice came out uncertain, pleading.

Elrond cocked his head, dark hair spilling over his shoulder as he looked down at the younger elf. “Perhaps you do forget your history, young one. Yes, I was born here. But I also lived through the First Age, and I have seen those who came from Valinor. Their words are true. Ask Celeborn or the Lady Galadriel when next you journey to Lothlorien.” Eriol stiffened at that. He had avoided the Golden Woods for nigh on seven decades. He had no desire to break that decision.

  
But Elrond was still speaking. “They are all living proof of Valinor’s glory, Exiles though they be. And if there was any true draw for me,” he added with a pained smile, “it is to be reunited with my wife. Their stories are not lies, Eriol.”

There was an ache in his chest as he thought of the lord’s words. “Then why do you not sail now? Take your sons and your daughter and go to join Lady Celebrían?”

“It is not for my sake that I hesitate to sail,” Elrond said firmly. “My duties here are twofold. Middle-earth is still beneath the Shadow, and rumors have begun once more in the east. I am one of the few left to counteract this threat.” He hesitated, grey eyes drifting toward the waterfalls, where they laced together and leapt in silver ribbons. “. . . And I leave behind one that I call father, knowing as I do that he fears the wrath of the Valar and the chain of his Oath if he returns to the Undying Lands. But instead he will wander Middle-earth until he fades with the land. And I do not wish to leave him when I could save him.”

Elrond had been born into the bloody warfare of the First Age, had been raised by kinslayers. The Fëanorians had left their bloody mark on history, had managed to turn the entirety of the Eldar against them before they perished one by one. But even in death, they still paid for their crimes. It was common knowledge for any who bothered to look in the history books.

But that still left Eriol with no clear path to take. His dilemma was not like Elrond’s or his foster father’s. He knew very well how many of the Elves were leaving Middle-earth, as he had been guarding their paths for the last few centuries. It was only a matter of time before Círdan launched the last of his ships and those who decided to remain would linger and fade as Men grew and took over the land.

He couldn’t decide which fate was worse.

Something in those words fueled his anger. “My curse is not that of the Fëanorians,” Eriol gritted out.

Elrond’s response was simple. “No. The Fëanorians stopped at nothing to retrieve their father’s handiwork, and shed blood whenever they were halted in their paths. In your turn, you believe you follow in the darkened footsteps of your forefathers.”

Eriol was already shaking his head. “Say it,” he bit out. They had danced around this topic in the past, whenever he had passed through Imladris on his way to Lothlorien. Back when he still went to Lothlorien. “Say what I am, who I belong to. You should know better than most why it is impossible, why I had to give up happiness when I had it.”

“You wish me to say it?” Elrond’s gaze hardened. “Very well. Your people worshipped Ungoliant, a creature from the Void. It was her insatiable hunger that devoured all light in Arda, causing the Sun and Moon to first be set in place. Even Morgoth feared her and her monstrous appetite, and now her spawn dwell in darkened places, corrupting and devouring. Still venerated by your people, who remain living in darkness.”

Put in such blunt words, Eriol flinched.

“Is that what you wish to hear?” Elrond’s voice was painfully gentle. “From friends as well as enemies?”

Eriol felt that sickening twist in his chest, reminders of vile words and accusations, of disgust. “That is what I receive when my heritage is known. I could attempt it hide it. But that gives me little consolation when I must weigh the balance and pick one side to fall upon. I do not have the luxury of freedom that you do.”  
“You could still sail. Even if you did not this time, there are yet ships in the Havens. And in the future, should you dare to sail,” Elrond added with a knowing smile, “there would be one who would find no greater happiness than welcoming you to the Undying Lands, should you wish to seek her out.”

He spoke before he could stop himself. “Tinwë is sailing?” The instant he spoke he wished to cut out his own tongue. He had managed to not say that name in seventy years. And his mouth betrayed him the moment he allowed his mind to wander to the weaver. He turned back to the railing, fingers sliding over the smooth silvery grain of the wood. “No, she yet remains in Lothlorien, I know that. She would not leave Lady Galadriel unless she was sent away.” The weaver had called the Golden Woods her home since her birth and had never left it. She had created tapestries that practically glowed with her love of her home, had woven cloaks imprinted with her pride of her heritage. He couldn’t see her willingly parting from the only world she’d ever known, one she held so dear.

“Tinwë _is_ sailing,” Elrond said gently. “She arrived in Imladris a week ago with her brother.”

Eriol was silent for a long moment, feeling pale. “I thought our paths would remain separated,” he whispered. He had certainly wished they had. His eyes flashed back up as something came to him. “Don’t tell her. I beg you, do not mention my name.” Even he was surprised at his vehemence. He hoped she had forgotten him in the years apart, but the memory of the Eldar was long and the heart was not so easily given or returned.

Elrond’s gaze dropped back to the waterfalls, autumn wind stirring the trees about them and bringing the tinkle of chimes. “I will do as you ask, but the decision to go or to stay is up to her and to you. You will be given a choice, between duty and courage. When it comes . . . do not doubt yourself, young one.” Elrond pressed his shoulder before quitting the terrace and letting the peaceful sounds of nature fill his place.

Eriol gazed blankly after him, hand grasping the railing in a white-knuckled grip.

The morning of their departure dawned cold and drizzly. Eriol kept his hood up to fend off the rain, though the strands of his hair that escaped their confines became plastered to his face and his leather armor. It did well enough to hide his face, he thought as he and the other scouts prepared to move out. He’d haunted Rivendell the last few days, using the House’s fussy steward and his errand-running as an excuse to keep from those who traveled.

Erestor was not wrong in regards to the size of the company, though. There were whole families this time, not just the ones and twos would meet with others once they reached Valinor. Some rode in the wagons, along with their belongings. Others rode Elven-bred horses that would most likely sail with them. It was a mixed group of Sindar and Silvan folk, from Imladris and Lothlorien. Larger than usual.

And he wondered how they could protect such a large group with the few numbers they had.

The dread he had felt at the news of Tinwë had haunted him the last few days in Imladris and had only grown when they had departed. He had seen a glimpse of her hair once, and had made efforts to keep out of sight, among the trees, scouting ahead.

But as the days trickled by and they passed over first the Loudwater River and then Hoarwell, he was lured into a false sense of security, one that would fail and fail miserably. One of the scouts placed nearer to the caravan had somehow swapped places with him, and now he was keeping close to the edges. He had made the one mistake he had sworn to never make in the presence of for seventy years.

He had forgotten to be invisible.

“ _Eriol_?”

The voice was light, barely more than a whisper on the breeze, but it held him in place stronger than any bonds.

He froze, cursing the Valar for such a twisted fate. He had managed to avoid her for almost a week now, the scouting for the company keeping him busy. But there was no way to delay the inevitable now, he thought bitterly. He turned his mount back to see a dappled mare trotting up to him. And upon its back was a slender figure wrapped in a forester’s cloak, cowl lowered to soak in some of the light peeking through the leaves overhead.

They’d first met in Lothlorien, when he’d been fresh from a skirmish with orcs and had lost his cloak to a torch that had gotten too close for comfort. The Lady Galadriel had directed him to the weavers, one of whom had been Tinwë.

She was just as he remembered, dark-haired and proud of eye as she gazed at him in faint shock. “You are still . . .” She trailed off, seemingly lost in a barrage of thoughts. “Eriol?”

“Tinwë.” He stared at her blankly. There was no reason for him to greet her as anything more than an acquaintance, and so he took pity on her and approached a topic he thought to be safe. “Master Elrond told you were sailing with your brother?”

“Yes, my brother and his family,” she said with a glance over her shoulder. They would be among the wagons, he thought distantly. But his eyes didn’t follow her gaze, instead tracing the delicate lines of her face. She had not changed in the decades they had been apart. Of course she hadn’t.

He ripped his gaze away, cursing himself.

It had been several decades since they had seen each other, yes, but it was clear it hadn’t been long enough to kill whatever it was she thought lay between them. Her eyes spoke words he couldn’t forget. But she lived in dreams.

“Elrond told you?” she repeated in confusion. He stilled, realizing he had made a mistake. Yet again. “Then—you knew I was here. Why did you not say anything? Did you plan to say anything?”

He grew uncomfortable with how pointed her questions were going. She seemed to sense this and backed off with a wry smile. “I forget,” she said with a laugh. “You spend so much time among the Dúnedain, short-lived as they are. Perhaps their taciturn nature has rubbed off a little too much on you these last few centuries.”

“Or perhaps their forefathers adopted it from _me_. I do not recall you ever complaining,” slipped out before he could stop it.

Her eyes glittered with amusement. “Never have I found you as particularly forthcoming, so perhaps it is true. Though I would find no surprise that if your tongue withered from disuse, you’d find it not a bother.”

He had to bite back the clever response that lay on his tongue. Her laughter felt too much like coming home and some part of him still wished to banter with her like this once more, laugh and tease. But he’d cut those ties for good reason, one of which was the reason for this trip.

“But tell me—I did not realize that you were also sailing.”

He blinked back at her, tensing beneath his cloak. Did she not see he was dressed as a scout, and not as one of the party? “I travel to the Havens, yes,” he said guardedly. He wished to be cold to her, to strengthen the walls he had built in the first place. But it was clear even these few moments speaking with her that that was a false hope. He couldn’t resist her then, he couldn’t resist her now. So instead he set his face as stone and fell back into his usual silence.

She waited expectantly, but when nothing else was forthcoming she fell into contemplative silence herself. _She is intelligent_ , he thought achingly. _She’ll figure it out. The clues aren’t hard enough to spot—_

Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “You’re not sailing, are you? At all. You spoke only of riding with us to the Havens.”

“I am merely called upon as an escort,” he said shortly. _Leave it be_. “That is all.”

“We were happy once. Why couldn’t we be again?” The question was simple but he felt the acid burn of memories that accompanied it. The golden leaves of the great _mallorn_ trees, the swirl of her dark hair as she playfully drew him along the paths of Cerin Amroth, elanor and celandine dancing at her feet. It had not been her beauty that had first ensnared him, but that chiming, silvery laughter.

He looked away from her, into the forest they traveled through. Dark and deep, the forests of Eriador were a far cry from the realm of Galadriel and Celeborn. His heart felt just as heavy, full of the clinging cobwebs he couldn’t brush away with laughter. “. . . Do not expect hope where there is none.”

Tinwë straightened in the saddle, a sad smile on her lips. “You yet believe I could never love you. Don’t you.” It was not a question. Those piercing grey eyes of her swept over his face, prying him apart piece by piece and leaving him painfully exposed. He wondered what else she saw, what changes she wished to undo. Eriol clenched his jaw and stared right back, daring her to say anything more.

Tinwë made a small nod, as though confirming something to herself. There was a sad light in her eyes. There was a breath, but no words came and she abruptly turned away to rejoin the caravan.

The journey progressed easily, with little more than wolves to slow their movement. Here, they were protected from the darkness growing in the East, the threat of Mordor growing in strength. They took the forest by-roads, hidden and protective. Even away from her, he could feel her dark eyes on him, weighing, _waiting_. What he did not have an answer to was her unspoken ‘ _why not?_ ’ that hung between them, curling cautiously beneath her words. They had spoken again after that first time, but they had both avoided the thorns twisted around the nature of their relationship, of Valinor.

It had been easy—too easy—to fall into the banter they had shared centuries before. For the Elves, immortal as they were, time meant little to them.

And how long did he have her before she was forever gone beyond the Great Sea? Mere weeks, days even, before they arrived at Mithlond and the Grey Havens and she stepped foot on one of Círdan’s ships. Eriol had only heard stories of what Valinor was like, the homeland of the Eldar. Those who told the tales had never seen it though. They had been born long after the Exile, and even Elrond’s words did not fill him with comfort. To the Exiles of Middle-earth, it was their long-awaited birthright and they were going home.

It wasn’t for him.

And when he would catch Tinwë’s longing gaze on him, he admitted to a cold, hidden part of himself that this was the same. _She_ wasn’t for him.

She was for the golden sun and eternal happiness of Valinor. Her family, parents she hadn’t seen in centuries, a sister who had sailed before. He _wanted_ her to be happy. She wouldn’t be with him, he knew.

So Eriol retreated to the stone façade he had relied upon so heavily over his lifetime, hiding behind slowly cracking walls.

When they broke through the mountains and into the deep, lush valley that bowed around the harbor, a cheer rose from the company. Excited voices rose in laughter and song as they came to the end of the first part of their journey. Mithlond spread below them, marble domes and silvery-grey wood glowing with the beauty of another Age. Beyond the buildings, Eriol could see the heaving of the water, and further—the Great Sea. No matter how many times he saw it, escorting others of the ships, the very sight of it sent a pang of longing through him. No elf was exempt from the sea-longing. That draw to the West ensnared all who saw those waves.

And the thought terrified him.

Círdan was there to greet them, as he did with every group to sail. Bearded as no other elf Eriol had seen due to his great age, he still had a sense of eternal youth, as sprightly as an ocean breeze.

Eriol didn’t listen to the others as they mingled with the people of the Havens, instead his attention drifted to the water glittering beyond the rooftops. What would it be like to drop everything and step on one of the swan ships, and never look back at the darkening shores of this world? He had contemplated it many times before, but the dream would tarnish with the knowledge that he would not be welcomed.

But here . . . it was peaceful here, in a way that lured him every time he escorted a group. The gentle lap of the water, the piping cries of gulls.

He didn’t know how much time had passed as he stood on the docks, his duty done. The caravan would enter the ships, cargo would be stowed, and the anchors pulled them. Then he would see yet another handful of Elves leave and never come back. Was this what death was like for Men? Their loved ones leaving forever, and they unable to follow? Fingers slid between his and he stiffened before consciously relaxing his grip. Beside him, Tinwë shot him a faint, painfully hopeful smile. He could feel the calluses she had from her loom, remembered the beautiful tapestries and cloaks she had made.

The thought of death lingered even as he soaked in the sunlight. “Do you think you’ll miss it?” he murmured. “Miss this?” His gaze swept over the city, encompassing it all.

“Yes. It’s everything I’ve ever known. But I have not seen Father or Mother since I was young.” Of course. He had forgotten that her father had died in the goblin raid at the Redhorn Pass that had also taken Lady Celebrian, and Tinwë's mother had sailed not a year later to wait for his re-embodiment from Mandos. At least Tinwë had had her brother and his family as a shield against loneliness.

She turned bright eyes to him. “Come with us,” she blurted. “Come with me.”

He balked. “I cannot.”

Her eyes flared. “Do not say that you cannot. You have a choice, Eriol. Come or go, there is no magical in-between.” Her hand hovered between them before she rested it against his sleeve. He could feel her warmth, soothing against the autumn nip in the air. But he refused to be comforted.

“If Kinslayers and traitors are not welcome on the shores of Valinor, I doubt the descendents of Ungoliant’s worshipers would be.”

Tinwë paled as though she’d been struck but her jaw set stubbornly. “You are defined by what you make of yourself, not by your blood,” she said fiercely.  
A harsh laugh escaped him before he could halt it. “Look in the history books, at the stories of Celebrimbor or the Traitor of Gondolin, and tell me they lie. Their fates were carved in stone the instant they were born, because of the curse in their blood.”

She looked away with a sharp turn of her head but he could see the hard line of her jaw. The anger, he knew well. He had told her some—not all—of the things that had been done to him by others whose memories were long and whose judgment had been clouded.

He was pulled out of his dark thoughts when her hand tightened on his arm, and he looked up to meet her gaze. “Why do you insist that I could never love you?” Frustration seeped into her voice and she stared at him. The wind lashed her dark hair across her face, almost masking the suspicious glitter of her eyes.

He was already shaking his head. “I don’t need to. I see it in your eyes. You fear me, my people. And well you should.”

“I don’t fear you. I fear _for_ you. If you stay, you will fade until you are nothing but a shadow. Powerless and lost. I don’t want that for you. That is why I say, _come with me_.” The hand on his arm tightened and she drew closer, face set in a silent plea.

He brushed her hair out of her face, fingers lingering against her hair. He allowed himself this small torment. “You were ever the stronger, Tinwë. I have not the heart to give you what you want.”

“You have not the heart, or the courage?” she cried, jerking away from him. Her chin tilted in defiance, dark eyes daring him to make a stand for once. And for once, Eriol wished he could.

But he felt lost, wandering blind. “. . . Neither.” Something in his face must have told her what he could not.  
Cradling his face gently in her hands, she kissed him.

He tasted salt. Sea brine or tears, he did not know. He didn’t wish to know, if knowing made the parting harder. But he embraced her tightly, committing this to memory that would never fade even as he did. She would pass the Great Sea, he would return to the restless life of a wanderer.

And so he allowed himself this small happiness, bittersweet as it was. Losing himself to her embrace, her scent. She was like the tide, always pushing and pulling and unknowingly careless of the devastation she wrought. When she went, his heart would go with her.

Tinwë finally pulled away and he instantly missed the encompassing safety he felt with her. Tears glittered treacherously in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. She had the heart of a warrior, Eriol thought with a pang. She had what he did not. She would sail where she wished and she would be happy.

“I’ll be in Tirion when you arrive.” There was such hope in her eyes and Eriol couldn’t allow himself to break it. _When_ , she said—not _if_. Even now, she didn’t doubt him, even as he did himself. “I’ll watch for the coming ships.” Her lips curved into a smile, heartbreaking in its simplicity.

_There would be one who would find no greater happiness than welcoming you._

It was not Foresight on Elrond’s part, Eriol knew. It was an easy guess for any who knew of the love Tinwë held for him. But what else he had said rung deep within Eriol. _Duty or courage_ . . . He had a choice, and he would make it.

Her fingers clung to his for a moment longer, trying to spin the time into longer.

Then she was gone, slipping through his fingers like saltwater, like sunlight. She would join her brother and his family and she wouldn’t look back. He prayed she wouldn’t look back. Joyous voice drifted up to him from the docks and he watched as the final preparations were made and the ship went underway.

He watched as the white sails grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared, and along with it the last anchor that held him to Middle-earth. It had grown thinner and thinner until it was but a thread that would snap. And when that happened . . . He did not know where his path would lead, either to the right or the left. But choose he would. If only for Tinwë’s sake.

The sun had begun to sink closer and closer to the horizon, sending shards of orange and gold across the water. There was a rustle of cloth and someone settled beside him. He risked a glance sideways and caught the gaze of Círdan. Eriol could see the same double reflection of light that shone in Lady Galadriel’s eyes, but the Shipwright seemed to be a well of time, older by far than the Lady of the Golden Wood.

And Eriol knew that there was little the Shipwright hadn’t seen. The longing in his breast was growing steadily into an ache that he knew wouldn’t leave, not unless he followed in Tinwë’s steps. He had denied himself for seventy years, had thought to protect her from himself. But it had been too little, too late. He had given her more than his heart, as she had him.

Círdan said nothing, but he felt the Shipwright needed no words to know or express exactly what he felt. His silent companionship was enough for now, Eriol thought even as the sea breeze whipped the tears from his cheeks.

He wanted this feeling to leave him. But the only way for that to happen would be to do the impossible. The knowledge that he had only one clear path made it easier to breathe, easing something inside him. It would not be easy, he knew. The path would be painful, the acceptance difficult. But he would do it.

The wind tore at his hair, tugging him after those long-gone sails. Toward the West. It stirred at his heels as though urging him onward, encouraging him. And he would, he knew now. If only to hear Tinwë’s laughter as she greeted him.

But he did nothing, said nothing. He didn’t need to. The two elves stood in silent contemplation.

Watching the sun sink into the Great Sea.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a class, perhaps one of the best assignments I've ever gotten lol
> 
> There are parts where canon may be a bit wonky, please don't look too closely, as this started out as a LotR/Forgotten Realms fusion and then deteriorated to... this. I'll be revising this later (again) and maybe adding bits here and there.
> 
> The name comes from Tolkien's Book of Lost Tales, Eriol Sarothron ("Lone Dreamer" and "Voyager"), perfect for a wanderer ;D
> 
> First time posting here, please tell me what you think!


End file.
